


Final Temptation

by rfsmiley



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Podfic Available, crowley is experienced, idk man these are just my headcanons, so many good omens tropes wow, this has probably all been done before and i'm sorry about that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-29 07:58:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17804114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rfsmiley/pseuds/rfsmiley
Summary: It doesn't occur to Crowley to tempt Aziraphale until approximately 5,900 years into their relationship.





	Final Temptation

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Čeština available: [Poslední pokušení](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20390236) by [tiberia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiberia/pseuds/tiberia)



> 1\. Happy Valentine’s Day, GO fandom!
> 
> 2\. This is the second Good Omens fanfiction I’ve ever written. I wrote the first about ten years ago, and it appears to have disappeared off the internet entirely, which is fascinating to me, because I didn’t know things could do that. I also no longer have a copy. Oh well, it’s no great loss; it featured a very dark Crowley which is deeply hilarious to me now.
> 
> 3\. This one stemmed from a lot of pent up feelings about a show first with no release date, and now with a too-distant release date. 
> 
> 4\. There is conflicting research on whether green carnations actually meant anything lascivious (and homosexual) in Victorian England. Also, if they were a thing, it would have been in the 1890s, after the Oscar Wilde play where they first made an appearance, not the 1880s as in this fic (Or maybe Crowley started the trend himself? You decide). Pls excuse.
> 
> 5\. Editing this note to say that Neil confirmed that the Portland Place gentleman's club was in fact an exclusive gay club: the Hundred Guineas Club. (aHA! i KNEW IT)
> 
> 6\. Another post show note: I am seriously tempted to unmark this as tv show canon compliant because there is no way that fool demon doesn't Know... sigh
> 
> 7\. .... so .... FayJay, a fic writer I have loved since I was a penniless study abroad student hunched next to my radiator in 2011, did a podfic of this, and I will never be okay ever again, if you were wondering. it's linked at the end of the fic and I .... ???? ..... amazing.
> 
> 8\. Now available in Czech (linked above; thank you tiberia!)
> 
> 9\. Now available with an epub cover (thank you tenoko1!)

*

Crowley was lounging. It was something that he fancied he was rather good at – striking a casual, disinterested pose, leaning against a paneled wall next to a creaking grandfather clock, waiting as patiently as a spider. His cravat was just a bit too loose, disheveled, letting a bit of pale skin peek through, gleaming pearl-bright above his dark attire. On his lapel, he wore a wilting green carnation, the tips of the petals only just beginning to turn brown. He fingered it absently as he scanned the crowded room, his shielded yellow eyes examining face after face, until they lit on what he had been searching for.

A redheaded gentleman across the room was eyeing him. Crowley returned the gaze with interest. He could sense the human chemicals beginning to flood the man's system, the adrenaline, the heady spike of dopamine as the man assessed his unconventional boutonniere. Crowley smiled, a wicked flash of teeth. Hesitantly, and then with growing certainty, the man smiled back at him.

 _That's right,_ Crowley thought, amused. He poured a vision into the man's head, like topping off a glass of whiskey, seductive, deliberate. The man's throat constricted visibly as he swallowed. 

The trick of it, Crowley reflected, was that humans were predisposed to vice. All you had to do was give them a little nudge.

He straightened, adjusting his lapels again, and shouldered his way into the crowd. He only made it a couple of steps, however. A door banged open somewhere to his right, and a flood of newcomers, most of them deep in conversation, interposed themselves between the demon and his target. He paused, annoyed, and then someone crashed into him.

“Oh dear – I am _so_ sorry,” said a voice, sounding deeply aggrieved. Crowley blinked as two hands steadied him, almost fussily patting down his chest. “My good sir –”

The voice stopped. Crowley stared. Aziraphale, of all people, was staring back at him.

“You,” Crowley said, inarticulately. Their faces were very close together.

Aziraphale blinked, looked hastily around himself, and then steered Crowley powerfully back towards the empty space near the clock. “You!” he hissed. “What are you doing here?”

Crowley was astonished. As if he were the one out of place – didn’t the angel know what kind of establishment this was?

He said as much. The angel didn't seem to be listening; he too was scanning the room. Crowley followed his gaze. Across the room, the redhead caught his eye, lifted his glass in a wistful toast, and then turned and disappeared into the crowd. Crowley scowled.

“Are you here _working_?” said Aziraphale, sounding scandalized, also watching the man depart.

“Some of us have quotas to fill,” Crowley snapped, nettled. Then he blinked. “Are you _not_ here working?” he said slowly.

Aziraphale managed to look both haughty and uncomfortable. “It's a gentleman's club,” he said. “I am supposed to be a gentleman. Therefore...” He paused.

Crowley could have laughed in his face. “Right,” he managed. “One must keep up appearances.” As if any normal human's reputation could survive being caught in a den like this.

“If you must know,” said Aziraphale, turning faintly pink. He stopped again. “They teach the gavotte,” he finished sheepishly. “I've always wanted to learn –”

This time Crowley did burst out laughing. “You're here for the dancing,” he wheezed. “Of course.”

“It makes more sense than the alternative,” Aziraphale muttered. “As if I would –” and he subsided abruptly, as if he found even the words repugnant.

This caught Crowley's attention. So the angel did know about the nature of this place.

Aziraphale wouldn't quite meet his inquiring gaze. Instead, they examined each other. Crowley noticed the angel's eyes linger disapprovingly on his open cravat, the increasingly flaccid carnation.

“Come on,” he said coaxingly, as Aziraphale's mouth thinned. “You're not even a little bit curious?”

Aziraphale grimaced. “About the kind of thing a demon might get up to in a place like this?” he said dryly. “No. Certainly not.”

Crowley tried to imagine the angel in some of the more compromising positions that Crowley himself had been in over the years – literal positions – and his mouth twitched, causing the angel’s scowl to deepen. “But you’ve experienced so much of the best humanity has to offer,” he pointed out, all innocence. “Fine wines, good food. Experiencing the pleasures of the flesh is really an inevitability at this point.”

“Certainly not,” repeated the angel primly.

Really, thought Crowley in annoyance, he could be such a prude. “Might do you some good,” he muttered.

Aziraphale gave him a look of deep disgust and turned away. “I’ll leave you to your exploits, shall I?”

“No thwarting?” Crowley called after him, surprised.

“Your personal _relationships_ ,” said the angel, in a clipped voice, not looking back, “are no concern of mine.”

Crowley stared after him. Now, what was that about? he wondered. He had never known the angel to walk away from a contest of wills, not when the opportunity to obstruct demonic wiles was right under his nose.

It was certainly a puzzle.

He turned and found himself face to face with a pair of arresting green eyes. The redheaded gentleman had reappeared out of nowhere, and several thoughts which Crowley _certainly_ had not put into his head were swimming just under the surface of his intense gaze. Crowley blinked, taken aback, and then felt his lips tug into a smile. Humans made his job so _easy._

They made their way to the stairwell together. Crowley's nerves were buzzing with anticipation; it wasn't as though he didn't enjoy this himself, after all. And then, like cold water suddenly dashed in his face, he saw Aziraphale's disapproval again in his mind's eye: the way his frown had dimmed the light in his uncanny blue eyes, the way his cherub's mouth had flattened into a grim line as he took in Crowley's wanton appearance.

 _Aziraphale,_ he thought, exasperated, as a gloved hand drew him further into the shadows. Trust him to ruin a good temptation with his – conservatism.

But later on, much later, in the privacy of a shuttered library, after his cravat had been discarded and as the gentleman’s mouth moved down the side of his throat, towards the hollow where his collar opened, he thought, with sudden intensity: _Aziraphale?_

* 

It happened in the bookshop. Because of course it would happen in the bookshop, Crowley told himself wryly, afterwards. 

It wasn't as though he hadn't imagined it. By then, he had imagined it too many times. More than a century had passed since Aziraphale had stumbled into him in that crowded gentleman's club in Portland Place, and it had ruined Crowley's normally spirited pursuit of iniquity ever since. For the first time in their long, complex, storied history, he had a searing memory of Aziraphale's lips pressing together, sealing themselves in judgment, begging for someone to come along with a proper temptation and make them fall open in surprise. The image would spring up at inopportune moments – usually, and perhaps predictably, when he was helping mortals succumb to Lust. Would Aziraphale moan like this? he thought, staring up at a dark-haired woman whose nails were digging uncomfortably into his chest. Or, with his hands tangled in a young man's hair at Woodstock: would Aziraphale's eyes flutter closed, like this?

And so, driven by curiosity more than anything else, he began to drop hints. He bought increasingly expensive bottles of wine. He paid for a ludicrous supply of chocolate Belgian seashells, the angel’s particular weakness. He allowed his eyes to linger on that infuriating cherub’s mouth. He let their legs press together during Vivaldi concertos and tried to see, surreptitiously, if Aziraphale flushed at all in the dark theater. Most daring of all, he began to brazenly mention his conquests, and if he was pleasantly sore from a night of debauchery, trying to see if it would spark any sort of heat – jealousy? curiosity? – in the angel’s eyes. But Aziraphale simply receded during these conversations, growing mild and distant until Crowley gave up and fell back into their platonic camaraderie.

Finally, on an evening when they had already had too much wine, they were deep in a discussion of their recent reports back to their superiors when Crowley saw another opportunity. He lightly talked of a commendation (fictional) he had recently earned for a particularly sordid encounter he had achieved, in Essex, with a rather curious couple (not fictional, but certainly exaggerated), and watched with fascination as the tips of Aziraphale’s ears reddened. This was the most dramatic reaction he had gotten thus far, he noted with pride.

“You really have a fixation, I hope you know,” said the angel, fussing with their corkscrew. The cork had broken off inside the neck of the bottle – something that itself was very promising, Crowley thought, optimistically, since that never happened and smacked of distraction. Aziraphale held the bottle to the light, muttering to himself, and then snapped his fingers. The fragments of cork vanished.

“A fixation?” the demon echoed, cheerfully. “I just –” he rocked back in his chair, waving a hand, “happen to enjoy it.”

The truth, of course, was a little more complicated – namely, that Crowley liked the fact that he could tempt people to something that, while certainly lecherous, didn’t actually harm anyone, an achievement that nonetheless delighted Hell and earned Crowley time away from other, more malevolent quotas. Not that Crowley could put that into words. Anyway, it was fun.

Aziraphale gave him a look that Crowley couldn’t decipher, although it hearkened back to the expression of deep disgust he had worn in Portland Place a century ago. The angel stood, wobbling a little.

“It’s late,” he said, pointedly, and began clearing away the glasses.

“Oh, come off it,” said Crowley, feeling, well, thwarted.

Aziraphale made a sudden noise of distress as he noticed the book that Crowley had been using as a coaster and snatched it up, examining it for damage. He glared at Crowley and marched away, towards the shelves, radiating irritation.

“You must be curious,” insisted Crowley, following him. “I couldn’t stand not knowing – You must have at least considered it –”

“Well of course I’ve _considered_ it,” said Aziraphale, snidely, not looking at him. “But it’s not the sort of thing our sort goes in for with someone off the street, you know. One likes to have an – investment.”

Crowley felt a sudden leap in his stomach. A suspicion that he had been harboring since 1889 had suddenly reared its head like a snake. _You weren’t wrong,_ it hissed at him. _You could tempt him to this._ You _could._

“Ssssounds like you sssstill have options,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant. “If you were interessssted.”

Aziraphale froze, one hand still on the spine of the book he was putting away.

Crowley came after him, and as Aziraphale turned to face him, Crowley pinned his hand gently against the bookcase. They looked together at their fingers splayed against the walnut grain, unconsciously interlocking. Crowley felt the heart in his assigned body begin to pound, a distinctly unfamiliar sensation. So strange. In all the times he had done this, it had never done that before.

Aziraphale's eyes were unreadable. Crowley swallowed. So many hundreds of thoughtless seductions achieved, and yet this one, the most important of all, was somehow terrifying, immobilizing.

And then: the thought, unheralded, that perhaps this should not be. The serpent of Eden, for the first time, hesitated in the midst of a temptation, wondering if it was not too late to turn back, if the apple should remain unblemished and whole.

“Sssstop me,” he said softly, “if you –”

Aziraphale kissed him.

Crowley’s mouth opened in surprise and Aziraphale pushed in, hungrily, ardently, not bashful at all, as Crowley had imagined during the long years that he had thought of this moment. He felt the leap, the tug of sudden heat, below his navel, and a noise, almost a whine, escaped him. Aziraphale made an incoherent sound in return and brought his hands up, fingertips on Crowley’s jawline, on his hairline, mapping the contours of his face. Crowley moved so that their hips were flush, and felt Aziraphale lean into it, felt the angel make an effort that was both startling and intoxicating.

“I knew – it,” Crowley panted, breaking the kiss at last. “I fucking – knew it – you weren’t immune to this kind of –”

“Oh, _really_ ,” said Aziraphale, sounding annoyed. “There’s no call to be _smug –”_

This time Crowley didn’t hesitate; he seized Aziraphale’s horribly bobbled jumper and hauled him in. The angel sighed into his mouth, hands skating up Crowley’s back this time, tugging his shirt free so that they could touch bare flesh. Crowley shivered and pressed into him, rolling his hips, feeling the familiar – and yet strangely, wonderfully _different_ – tide of want wash over him.

For it was different. When they pulled apart to stare at each other, there was a shine in Aziraphale’s eyes – eyes Crowley had known for six thousand years – that he had never seen before, as if the angel could see right through him, unflinchingly, to every vice and every doubt. There was an ache in Crowley’s chest, almost a physical pain, that was also entirely strange and out of place. And when Aziraphale turned over one of Crowley’s hands and kissed his palm, Crowley fought the insane urge to laugh, with delight or with incredulity – it made no sense.

He wasn’t questioning it, though. He felt as though he had been waiting for this moment for a hundred years, probably longer. Possibly even six thousand years. The first temptation to the last.

Crowley was trying to steer the two of them towards the back room and shuck his pants at the same time when he tripped, and this time a startled laugh did burst from him – not very demonlike, he thought, catching himself on the edge of the table. Aziraphale made a noise of impatience and waved a hand. Crowley's clothes threaded themselves free of his body, hung in the air for a moment, and then settled in a tidy pile on one of the chairs.

 _Oh,_ thought Crowley, staring after them. And then he forgot to think at all, because Aziraphale's hands were on him.

“Wanton – serpent,” the angel was muttering. “As if you could just go to a _gentleman’s club_ for this –”

“That time in Portland Place,” Crowley gasped into Aziraphale’s mouth, incredulous, finally voicing the suspicion that had haunted him for a hundred years. “You were _jealous_ – you –”

“Always trying to have the last word,” Aziraphale said, resigned, tilting Crowley’s chin up, and descending to – rather effectively – silence him.

*

Crowley had grown accustomed to sleep as a regular part of his routine – in fact, he had even begun to crave it, as some humans did – but now, staring up at his ceiling unseeingly, he acknowledged that he had never been farther from sleeping in his life. His pulse was still loud in his ears, even now, hours later. During the whole long drive home, the blind fumbling to get into his flat, he had felt it thundering. It was starting to get a bit worrying.

He listened to the London traffic. Even at five in the morning, it hummed quietly, soothing a city that had slept fitfully if at all. A siren started its unearthly wail in the distance and was answered by spirited honking. Crowley had never found city living claustrophobic – he had always liked the comforting crush of people, to his private chagrin – but he was acutely conscious, tonight, of the heavy weight of millions of other lives, flickering in and out like fireflies all over the city. People having babies, arguments, breakfast, sex. People lying sleepless, like himself.

Impossible that, under the same moon, the world had shifted so dramatically. Crowley closed his eyes. He felt the inexorable, almost planetary pull towards the other side of London, towards the one light that did not waver but rather blazed like a torch, an answering signal in the night. As if there was no one else in the city after all.

 _Aziraphale,_ he thought, with the same wonder that had flooded him years ago, in a dark library, in someone else’s arms.

Surely it could not be.

And yet it had happened. His fingers tightened in the sheets as he relived Aziraphale’s breath, heavy and ragged in his ear. The way he had pressed a kiss to Crowley’s spine, reflexively, between his shoulderblades, where there ought to have been wings. The way his voice had broken on Crowley’s name when he – when –

Crowley stared up at the ceiling again, willing his heartbeat to slow (surely it could not keep this up forever?), as the sky outside finally began to change to gray, and then to a hesitant pink. He wondered when it had first occurred to the angel. Had he also been pondering the possibility for a hundred years? Had it been even longer? Had he listened to stories of Crowley’s conquests jealously after all? Or, stranger thought: had he been patiently _waiting_ –

He recalled the library again, that ginger-haired young man with the blue eyes (or had they been green? Crowley couldn’t remember now). He remembered that young woman with the long nails, a dark-haired genderqueer youth in Galway, the couple he had recently amused in Essex. He had taken pride in these diverse sins once, or at least found them vaguely satisfying. Those feelings were inexplicably gone. They all seemed so insignificant now: a farcical parade of hollow temptations that paled in comparison to this, his last (for Crowley knew, even if he was only just beginning to admit it to himself, that there would be no more mortals in his bed. Though he was blessed if he knew quite why).

Curiously, he probed at that thought. His _last._ No more temptations, of this nature, at any rate. Hell would probably have a few choice things to say about that. Well, he would deal with that when the time came.

And then, as sunlight began to spill into the room at last, Crowley bolted upright. His mind was blank with shock.

He had _tempted_ the angel.

Aziraphale had _succumbed to temptation._

Horror suffused him.

It was all well and good to corrupt humans with the vice of Lust. Adding a thin veneer of sin to their mortal souls – what was that, over the course of a lifetime wrestling with the maelstrom of free will? They would either be saved, or not. An adventurous night with a demon would not be the feather on the scale.

But an angel – To successfully tempt an angel –

He yanked the clinging sheets off of himself and wrestled himself free of his duvet until he sat, trembling, unencumbered, in the bare center of his mattress. His heart was racing again, this time with terror. You are the serpent of Eden, he thought, weak with self-hatred. How could you not think of the _consequences_ –

He had no idea how much time passed, but it was fully dawn by the time he came back to himself, a ludicrously beautiful day illuminated in the window. He couldn’t stand it. Blindly, he reached for his discarded duvet, lifting it in slightly shaking hands and pressing his face into the softness. Blocking out the light. It was still night, he told himself. There was still time to take everything back.

But there wasn’t.

Crowley shook, desperate. And then, for the first time in thousands of years, he prayed.

_Let him be spared. Let this one time not be enough. I won’t touch him again. I swear it. I won’t._

There was no indication that anyone was listening. There never was.

* 

The angel picked up on the third ring, sounding entirely unruffled. Crowley clutched at the phone. Surely he would sound different, if anything had happened –

“Shall we do lunch on Sunday?” the angel asked brightly. “I know a little Danish café called Kærlighed in East Sheen –”

“Aziraphale, listen to me,” Crowley said, his throat so tight he could hardly get the words out. “We have a problem.”

 “Do we?” Aziraphale’s voice changed. “Crowley, what happ –”

 “What happened,” Crowley said, frantically, “is exactly the problem.”

 There was a wooden silence. The demon scrambled to fill it.

 “I mean, it can’t happen, I mean, we can’t – Look, it’s not that I didn’t – that I don’t – But the thing is, you know as well as I do what could –”

“Crowley –”

“– was a bloody stupid thing to do, Aziraphale, I can’t, I can’t be responsible for –” He stopped.

 “Responsible for,” Aziraphale prompted him softly, and Crowley had to say it, as leaden and terrible as the words were.  

 “You’ll Fall.”

 There was a long silence on the other end of the phone. Crowley squeezed his eyes shut, pinched the bridge of his nose. And then –

 “I don’t think that will be an issue, for reasons which I think should be obvious,” came the quiet response.

Crowley stared at the receiver.

The knowledge came like a thunderclap.

 _He loves me,_ he thought dizzily, and reached out for the edge of the counter to steady himself. _He won’t Fall, because it’s not Lust -  
_

Faces flickered in front of his eyes, as they had earlier that morning. A girl with tousled dark hair in Paris in 1981. The youth in the Catskills in 1969. The redheaded gentleman in Portland Place in 1889. A hundred others whose names he had never known.

He had thought, in Aziraphale’s bookshop, that it had never been like this before. He had been right. A one-night tryst with a stranger was not the same as being with someone that you had known for centuries, someone that you – that you –

His mind recoiled.

“Fine, that’s fine,” he babbled. “I just,” and then he put the phone down and took a deep breath. Impossibly, a memory of Aziraphale swam before his eyes, resplendent in cravat and greatcoat, finding him drinking alone in, what was it, 1806, after seeing his first slave ship come into port, and saying: “My dear boy, you look quite ill – are you sure you don’t need to sit down –”

The image changed, sharpened: himself, gasping, pinioned underneath Aziraphale as the angel moved in him, their fingers twining; at one point they had knocked over a bottle of wine that had definitely not been empty, not that either of them had cared –

Crowley sat down.

 “Crowley?”

 “Lunch on Sunday is fine,” said Crowley. His voice sounded distant, even to himself.

 “Are you all right?” said Aziraphale, gently.

 “Yes, absolutely,” Crowley lied. “One o’clock?”

There was another pause, and then Aziraphale said, sounding unhappy, “One o’clock.”

 Crowley hung up on him.

*

The thing was, when you were a sinner who had lived on earth for 6,000 years, you assumed there were no more surprises – that you had seen and experienced everything humanity had to offer. Crowley had always privately felt that Aziraphale, whose reservations had always kept him physically aloof from the mortals, was the one who was missing key pieces, the powerful feelings and tidal waves of emotion that were integral to human life.

He was not adjusting well to discovering that there was something he himself had also been missing.

*

Crowley arrived very late, mostly because he had imagined at length how terribly awkward it would be to be early. Aziraphale was already sitting, installed in a corner with menus and water glasses, and Crowley allowed himself a long, indulgent moment to take in his silhouette, as if by a stranger. The angel had chosen a table in a windowed alcove, the most secluded spot in the café, he noted with appreciation. But Aziraphale looked tired; he was currently hunched well forward in his chair, almost defensively, gazing out of the window, watching an improbable nuthatch chase after crumbs. A truly terrible tartan scarf hung from the corner of his chair.  

Crowley hung up his coat and went to him.

“Your punctuality is getting worse,” the angel observed, still watching the nuthatch.

“London traffic,” said Crowley.

“I seem to recall we said one o’clock.”

“One thirty, surely.”

“Always excuses,” said Aziraphale lightly, finally turning to face him. Crowley’s stomach tightened. Despite his lighthearted tone, there was uncertainty in the angel’s eyes.

“Always complaining,” said Crowley, looking down at him for a long moment, wondering what the best thing to say could possibly be. Then he did something that surprised them both, and kissed Aziraphale sweetly on the mouth.

They looked at each other. Aziraphale’s eyes were a brilliant, glittering blue. Behind him, in the window, the nuthatch flew away.

A gentleman at the table nearest them coughed, and Crowley moved away and took his seat, observing with something not unlike pleasure that Aziraphale was distinctly pinker than he had been a moment before, and was sitting a bit straighter in his chair. The angel merely said, however, “If you need a recommendation, the gravlax here is divine, I’ve had it before,” as he passed the menu across.

“I’m not sure I’m in the mood for fish,” Crowley said, thoughtfully, flipping it open. “What about this – duck?”

“Our friends in St. James will never forgive you,” Aziraphale commented.

“What they don’t know can’t hurt them.”

The angel smiled a little as he poured Crowley what was almost certainly a Bordeaux well beyond the stocking capacity of a little café, and went on, “I’ve put in an order for some æbleskiver as well, I hope you don’t mind. A little indulgence.”

 “Mm,” said Crowley, reading the menu. “That’s fine.”

“My dear –” began Aziraphale, reaching across to touch his hand.

 “It’s all right,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale swallowed, and then plunged ahead bravely, though Crowley could see he was strangling on the words. “There are some things that – I should tell you – I –”

“It’s all right,” Crowley repeated, and to his intense consternation, he felt himself blush. He was pretty sure he had never done that before. Perhaps the angel wouldn’t notice – but when he looked up, Aziraphale was watching him, agog. No chance of that, then.

Then, slowly, the angel smiled, like a sunrise. The unspoken words hung between them. Maybe they would be said, eventually, Crowley thought, his blush deepening. Maybe in another hundred years. But until then -

“Perhaps some ris a la mande, too, while we’re here,” he suggested brightly, closing the menu and setting it aside. “Who knows when we’ll be back in the neighborhood.”

“Old serpent,” said Aziraphale, amused.

“The very best,” agreed Crowley, happily, reaching for his wine.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Final Temptation](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19354258) by [FayJay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FayJay/pseuds/FayJay)




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